Happy Endings
by Framling
Summary: A Yuki Eiri vignette, pre-Shuichi :) Yuki ponders why he writes.
1. Happy Endings

Disclaimer: Yuki Eiri-san doesn't belong to me (I don't belong to him, either!). Actually, he belongs to a lot of people who aren't me, but all they need to know is that I think they're gods and I'm not getting a cent.  
  
  
  
  
  
I've always loved words. Even the term 'a word', I love. Change one little letter, and you have a world, and that's what words are. Worlds upon worlds, forever. All I have to do is fit them together right, and I can create worlds that never existed. I can create people who never existed, thoughts that never existed… loves that could never be. For me, at least.  
  
But when I write I'm somewhere else. My laptop is a portal, and I can pour myself into someone else's body and mind and be not me anymore. Granted, the people I am have haunting pasts too. After all, a story needs some angst, or characters don't work. Nobody wants to read a story that has no conflict, nothing that hurts. Without the pain, a happy ending is useless. It's the contrast that makes the happy ending work.  
  
I'm not a character in one of my books. I can't write myself a happy ending. There's no such thing as a happy ending. In real life, you dream of something, you love someone, and they turn on you and you end up alone on the floor with blood seeping into the carpet and mixing with the tears you would cry if you could. In real life you take on the name of your hurt. In real life it hurts for real, you love for real, and you die for real. You can't turn back the pages. You can't decide whether or not the main character trusts the one he shouldn't. You can't protect yourself by closing the book. So you protect yourself by closing of your heart instead. If a story never starts it can't have a sad ending.  
  
Most people talk when they feel down. I write until my fingers bleed and my hands are so swollen I can't move them anymore. Happy ending after happy ending. The story that comes before doesn't matter. Just the happy ending.  
  
My story matters. I want a happy ending.  
  
But I can't take the chance. I don't want to hurt people. Don't want to be hurt. I'll sit here alone in my dark empty house with the only light coming from the other worlds on the other side of my laptop. There'll be no ending if I don't let a beginning happen. 


	2. Happy Beginnings

I have always loved words. I've used them, manipulated them, spent hours trying to find the right one. And I find myself stuck for something to describe him. He's... I don't know. Like nothing I've ever known. He bewilders me with his joy and his sorrow, with the way he goes from one to the other over such small things. He can't stay on one topic of conversation for more than a few sentences, but he'll spend hours trying to get me to smile and when he succeeds, he _squeals_ my name in that idiotic way he has... and I don't mind as much as I should.  
  
He's there in the doorway, now, watching me. I'm very carefully keeping my eyes on my screen and my fingers moving, but I haven't typed actual words since he arrived. At least he's finally figured out how to be quiet.  
  
He's got his own story, like one of my characters, the innocent about to be plunged into a world of corruption. I know the music business. It changed my brother-in-law into someone I don't even recognise sometimes. Tohma's ruthless. He's not. He's still a child. Not like his hero is, not at all, but he believes the best of everyone. Even me. But nothing gold can stay. I'll lose him. He's got his own story, and he's dragging me into it, with his laugh and his music and the way he looks at me with those big eyes that are enough to make you sick, with all the things I write about.  
  
People like him shouldn't exist. They have no right to exist. He's a fiction, a figment of my imagination, and I'm really strapped to a bed somewhere, cracked at last and sedated out of my mind, and I'm dreaming all this.I must be. Because I never opened the book. There's no such thing as a happy ending.  
  
I find my eyes wandering over to him. There's an energetic grace to the way he leans on the doorframe. A week ago, I would have said that was an oxymoron, but it isn't. Not anymore. He's ridiculous. He doesn't seem to follow any rules. He defies physics, and he defies words, and he defies history. I tried to hurt him first, to make him see that I can't love him, and he wouldn't leave, and now I don't really want him to.  
  
No such thing.  
  
But this is a pretty good beginning. 


End file.
